left to roost | zori
Jun 1, 2020 2:53:33 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jun 1, 2020 2:53:33 GMT -5
They called them a trio, once. But even before death they hadn't been, not for a long time.
Abdiel doesn't know why. He wonders sometimes, more so since their coffins arrived from the Capitol, and he placed a hand on top of that near-plastic wood panel (and it was with a finality, no trembling of fingers or knuckles turning white with pressure—the night before Sarina's death he had heard the rustle of the wind, restless, and had known that it was time). He remembers when he was young, and squabbling with Gabriel whose word was law just because he was older, and playing tag with his other halves, and going to birthday parties where ti@s and abuel@s and Bisabuela Marisol would shower them in kisses and shout. "¡Los trillizos!", or "¡mis mosqueteros!", or utter a roll-call while patting their heads: "Alfonso y Sarina y el pequeñito..."
Kelvin, however, does.
This morning he didn't sleep, but ironed his shirt for forty-five minutes, and made a scrambled egg but blinked to find himself stirring dried-out lace, and poured gruel into a teacup and called it "coffee" not café, and left two covered mugs for his not sleeping parents, and let Seb have another hour's rest while he laced up his boots and walked out the door. He made sure to tie them extra tightly this time, so he wouldn't trip up those wooden steps. There's always a squeaky one that causes kids trouble.
He didn't expect to be called. There were no omens circling about the house. He knew he should be. He deserved to be. He had to be. There was no other way: to leave a triplet left scrambling without his other thirds is to rid the world of everything that meant anything. But it didn't happen: he stood in that line, waiting for Abdiel Izar to be called out with malice, and all he could think of was that he did not want to be cremated, and that he did not want to be embalmed, and that he only wanted the soil to take him back to where he belonged. Instead, the crowd dispersed as another took his place. He stood there for a long time, long enough for Seb to find him, to nudge him back to his grieving parents. They waited in line with the other Izars, unsure whether their presence at Cyro's last moments in 11 would be welcomed. And after, they had a light lunch, and Kelvin went to work.
It is only when he is forging Imelda's signature on a fifth death certificate that it hits him, and Abdiel stops. He puts his head in his hands, slumps his full weight on his elbows, and wills tears to come. Eventually, they do, silently pooling in his palms as his shoulders shake like fronds of wheat in a zephyr's dance.
He is so tired. He is tired from what curls up in his stomach every time he thinks of them standing on the platform—and he hadn't even tried to object, had let them walk off of that stage without a single whisper. He is tired from his parents' expression that he will never unsee, when their second and third children were no longer in this world. He is tired from keeping his emotions in check, to prevent a collapse that has been long overdue. He is tired from his body telling him that he is doing too much and his mind screaming that he is doing too little. And he is tired of Time, flowing like a river, dragging him along the current as he forever looks back at an ever shrinking shore.
The door opens. A bell rings. Someone is here.
"Ah—" He says, a wet noise from the back of his throat, as he jerks back upright with a loud sniff and wipes a pond from his face, blinking as if he has never seen the sun. "Um, welcome to—"
His vision clears, and his first words are harsher than he means. "¿Por que está—?" and he cannot finish his sentence, for ¿Por que está aqui? is not No tiene ninguna razón para estar aquí, is not Vaya a cualquier otro lugar, is not No quiero que me vea así, is not Salga, is not why does it have to be you?, is not why does it have to be me?
"It is good to see you, Uncle. What... What brings you here today?"
He takes a breath. When he exhales it is ice, freezing him back into place.
